


Take Your Time

by TooSel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock, Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Cuddling, Established Relationship, First Time Together, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, M/M, Sexual Frustration, Smut, Top John, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5673361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooSel/pseuds/TooSel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It was the fifth time something like this had happened, and John was going to go insane. He just wanted to have a shag with his boyfriend, that was all he wanted. He didn't understand why the universe was so vehemently against letting him have this one thing.</em> </p><p>In which Sherlock and John are finally together and desperate to have sex but things keep getting in the way, John is going to lose his mind and Sherlock might just set someone on fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Your Time

**Author's Note:**

> Halfway through this fic I realised that I've never written actual explicit smut before. So, this is a first. Enjoy, hopefully!  
> This is unbeta'd and I'm not a native speaker, any mistakes are mine (correction is more than welcome). Comments and constructive criticism are also very much appreciated!

The first time it happened, John still laughed about it afterwards. He and Sherlock were having dinner at Angelo’s, the first since they’d officially become... _something_. They hadn’t talked about what to call it yet, boyfriends, partners, _an item_ \- romantically involved, perhaps, although John couldn’t imagine Sherlock being too fond of that last one. Though, in all honesty, who could tell? If anyone was full of surprises, it was Sherlock. And even though they'd only gotten together so recently that John's stomach still tingled with excitement whenever he thought about it, Sherlock had already taken to expressing his admiration in dozens of small ways. Small, rather _romantic_ ways.

John had secretly begun to suspect that Sherlock was quite the romantic when a cup of tea had started to appear next to John every morning. Then Sherlock had started placing soft kisses on him at random times before nuzzling the top of John's head, or his hand, or whatever body part was closest to him that moment. Then he'd agreed to a Bond marathon, knowing how much John enjoyed those. Then he'd proposed dinner at Angelo's that night.

John rather liked that side to him. Liked that he had it all to himself. That he was the only one who got to see it, maybe even the only one he'd ever shown it to. Yes, Sherlock definitely was a romantic when he let himself be. Or maybe it was just John who brought that side out. The thought left him feeling strangely proud and light-headed. He found that he quite liked _that_ feeling, too. Though, he suspected, the ridiculously expensive wine Angelo had brought them earlier might just play into it as well.

It had been a calm, relaxed evening. It was something they'd done before, but it felt different this time. Special. They hadn’t had to make it clear to Angelo that they were, in fact, _something_ now, since he’d always just assumed that they were, anyway. He’d set the bottle on the table - “the best I’ve got, for my two favourite lovebirds”, said with a suggestive wink - and Sherlock and John had exchanged one look of pure horror before erupting into giggles. They’d happily opened the bottle, though, and the atmosphere began to shift more and more the later it got. It may have been the alcohol, or the warmth in the crowded restaurant, or the fact that this was their first evening since they’d gotten together without chasing a criminal halfway through London - which was actually rather nice for a change. Whatever it was, at one point, when Sherlock’s knee brushed against John’s for the third time in a row and John’s hand, which covered Sherlock’s long fingers, twitched in response, the air started to buzz.

There was something John was very conscious of that they _hadn't_ done before. Something he'd thought about more often (and from a lot earlier on) than he'd like to admit. Something he'd been waiting for with prickling excitement ever since their first kiss. Judging by the expression on Sherlock's face, he felt the same.

The bottle was almost empty now. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow when John said so, straightening to reach for it.

“You're right,” he said without even looking at it, his eyes fixed on John. John's eyes, however, were fixed on Sherlock's hand around the bottle. On his fingers sliding down the neck slowly, mindfully. Suggestively, even. John swallowed hard before raising his eyes to meet Sherlock's heavy gaze.

“You think... we should leave, then? Go home?” John asked, licking his lips. Sherlock's eyes darted to his tongue before a smile spread on his face.

“Definitely,” he agreed, leaning back. His long legs bumped against John's as he stretched them out. He turned his hand beneath John's around, lacing their fingers together as they waited for the waiter to come by their secluded table.

They only let go of each other to put on their coats before stepping out into the chilly night air. Their hands found each other again naturally when they started walking. John squeezed his hand, licking his lips again when he watched Sherlock's profile.

“Tonight was lovely,” he said, smiling when Sherlock turned to him. He was smiling back, his features so soft and relaxed that John just had to cup his face, forcing them both to stop walking, and pull him down for a quick peck on his lips. “And I intend on it being even lovelier once we get home,” he muttered.

Sherlock's face split into a wide grin. It was one of those John had so rarely gotten to see before they'd gotten together. The sight still made his pulse speed up.

“Do you now,” Sherlock teased.

“Oh, you have-” He was interrupted when Sherlock's ring tone sounded from his pocket. Both of them glanced down.

“Go on,” John sighed, stepping back. “Take it.”

He didn't have to hear the other end of the conversation to know what it was about. Sherlock's face told him enough.

“That's Greg, isn't it.” Sherlock nodded. “And there's a murderer to be caught, isn't there.” He didn't even make it sound like a question.

Sherlock began to grin again. “Serial murderer,” he corrected, his eyes glistening. He raised an eyebrow in a silent question. John shook his head, but laughed.

“Lead the way,” he said. “I'm sure this won't take all night, anyway” he added with the hint of a smile, rubbing his thumb over Sherlock's skin in a suggestive manner.

 

The case took all night.

By the time they crawled into bed the sun had come up, and neither of them was in much of a state to have any kind of sex. John let out a laugh as he shuffled around to get comfortable.

“What?” Sherlock asked, turning to look at him.

“I just thought, _of course_ there's a fucking psychopathic murderer on the loose the night we want to shag for the first time.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Just seems to fit us, doesn't it?”

“Yeah.” John grinned before cupping Sherlock's face, leaning in for a goodnight kiss. “Tomorrow,” he mumbled against his lips, smiling at the hummed approval that got from Sherlock.

Definitely tomorrow.

 

 

Tomorrow came and passed and John was completely knackered when he got home from work. The day after, Sherlock had to run around London to save the city from apparent impending doom. The following night Mrs. Hudson insisted on watching Antiques Roadshow upstairs with them, and soon the week had gone by and they still hadn’t gotten around to doing it.

Not that John didn't want to. Not that Sherlock didn't want to. Oh, he definitely did, judging by the looks he gave John at the most inappropriate of moments – and John was _sure_ that he was secretly having a laugh (though, of course, he denied any malicious intent when John accused him of it).

John fully intended to pay him back for it once they found the time to be intimate. They just had to actually find it.

 

 

When John woke up, the sun already flooded through the window of his bedroom. He blinked a few times until his eyes adjusted to the light, then smiled as he realised three things at once. First, it was Saturday. No work today. He and Sherlock would have the whole day to themselves.

Second, Sherlock had crawled into bed next to him, his still damp hair curling around his face.

Third, John was hard as a rock.

Sherlock was running a finger up and down John's arm, something John only now realised he'd been doing all along. He placed a soft kiss on his shoulder when he looked up to find that John was awake.

“You woke me up,” John observed, raising his eyebrows when Sherlock began to smirk.

“I thought it was time someone did,” he said, glancing at the obvious bulge in John's pyjama bottoms. John felt a smile unfolding on his lips.

“Was it,” he mused, raising his hand to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair. “And what do you intend to do with me, now that I'm awake?”

“Mmmh,” Sherlock hummed, swinging one leg over John's body, effectively pinning him down. “I was thinking something like this...”

Sherlock's arse rubbed against John's crotch before he slowly crawled down the length of his body. John drew a sharp breath. The sensation the friction provided went straight to his cock. Sherlock slipped his hand beneath John's shirt, sliding over the skin of his belly. Then he went lower.

“Oh, god,” John breathed out when his fingers ghosted over his erect flesh.

“Do you want this?” Sherlock muttered, looking up at John through his eyelashes. “Do you want me to suck you off?”

“Yes,” John groaned, resisting the urge to buckle his hips. “Oh god, yes, suck me off."

Sherlock only grinned, moving his fingers between John's trousers and his skin. John closed his eyes, waiting for him to take the fabric off. He didn't. His trousers remained where they were.

“Hold on.”

John opened his eyes, his chest heaving. “Wha-? What is it?”

Sherlock turned his head, sniffing the air. He removed his fingers from John's skin. “Is that-”

“ _Boys!”_ They startled at the cry from downstairs. “Boys, get down here! Quick!”

Now John noticed the smell too. “Fuck,” he bit out, pulling Sherlock with him as he jumped out of the bed. “ _Move,_ Sherlock, the bloody house is on fire!”

 

It had been a cable fire which had started in Mrs. Hudson's flat, a firefighter told them later. No big damage done, most of which the insurance would pay. But they'd have to stay out of the flat for a few more hours, since a certain _someone_ had chemicals stored in the above flat, which were potentially dangerous in combination with the smoke.

“Funny,” John commented dryly, hugging the robe he'd caught on the way out closer around him. “I always assumed that if anyone was going to set the house on fire, it was going to be you.”

Sherlock didn't grace him with a response.

 

  
“We should do this right, you know.”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop to find John standing in front of him. “Do what right?”

John smirked, leaning down to catch his lips between his. Sherlock responded willingly, raising his hands to John's shoulders, holding him in place. The tip of Sherlock's tongue darted out to brush over John's lower lip. John groaned, pressing himself closer to Sherlock in response.

“This,” he muttered when they parted to get some air. “Maybe it's a good thing it hasn't worked out so far. Let's make it special.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “What do you have in mind?”

“Dinner, maybe? We could cook, so we can stay at home.”

Sherlock seemed to approve of the idea. “We're free tonight, aren't we?”

John nodded, licking his lips.  “Right, tonight then.”

 

Oh, John thought as they moved to the sofa after dinner, Sherlock Holmes was _definitely_ a romantic. They'd cooked together, with Sherlock playing a soft tune on the violin while John set the table. They'd opened a bottle of wine too, not as expensive as the one Angelo had given them, but just as good. Sherlock had brushed John's legs with his feet time after time, sending shivers down John's spine despite the relaxed dinner. Sherlock had also been the one to get up when they'd finished, whispering into John's ear to leave the dishes before leading him to the sofa. Which was where they were cuddled together now.

Sherlock was running his hands up and down John's skin, something he'd taken to doing a lot since they'd gotten together. John wondered if he was even aware that he was doing it.

“Are you comfortable?” John asked softly when Sherlock started to shift.

“With you? Always,” Sherlock gave back, wrapping his arms around him more firmly.

John laughed, his stomach tingling at the unexpected, tender words. “I'm glad, but I was talking about physical comfort. This sofa _is_ rather narrow, after all.”

Sherlock hummed, quirking an eyebrow. “You're right,” he mused. “My bed is much larger.”

John chuckled. “It definitely is,” he confirmed. He felt his cock stirring as his mind wandered to what they were about to do. “So, should we move th-”

His question was interrupted by a text message alert. John turned his head. It was Sherlock's phone.

Sherlock caught his gaze, shaking his head. “Don't. Leave it.”

“Don't you want to have a look?”

“It's just a text.”

“Maybe it's important,” John argued, picking up the phone.

Sherlock sighed. “It's not. Who is it?”

“Molly.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “Not important, I told you. She can wait.”

John furrowed his brow. “She says she has that corpse you've been asking for ever since she started working at Bart's- You asked for a corpse?”

Sherlock froze mid-motion. “No,” he breathed out, then shut his eyes. “No, not now.”

John dropped the phone. “What kind of corpse is it?”

“Male, over the age of 50, missing at least one limb, died due to a dull blow to the head,” he rattled down, shaking his head at John's raised eyebrows. “Long story. I started this study ages ago, but I've never been able to complete it, as I've been missing a corpse exactly like the one I just described. I need to run several tests on it within the first 30 hours.” He met John's eyes. “It'll be too late in the morning.”

John closed his eyes with a deep breath. “I see.”

“John, I-”

“You want to go, don't you?” Sherlock looked positively torn. John sighed, reaching up to peck his lips. “Go.”

Sherlock didn't look convinced. “Really? I-”

“Really,” John interrupted. “We can wait, can't we? The corpse can't. I understand, really, I do. This is important to you. Now go, before I change my mind.”

Sherlock hesitated for another second, then got up. “I'm sorry, John, I really am.” His voice was heavy with the regret John felt as well. He slipped into his coat, then bowed to give John a final kiss. It was fleeting, over too soon. John mourned the loss as he watched his boyfriend leave the flat. Then he brought himself to get up and start doing the dishes, all the while trying to repress the disappointment soaring in him. Trying to will the blood out of his cock.

It was almost funny, John thought. Now they actually were together, after everything they'd had to go through to get here, and still they couldn't have a shag in peace. He would have laughed, if his cock hadn't been aching from the lack of attention.

 

 

This was the fourth time this had happened, and John was definitely not laughing anymore. He shared a pained look with Sherlock, who then continued to stare daggers at Mrs. Hudson.

The poor woman looked miserable. Her clothes were dripping with the water she'd been splashed with when the pipe in her kitchen had burst.

“Could you please come down and take a look at it?” she asked, and John repressed a sigh. Sherlock wasn't so kind.

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson, I'll be down in a minute. I'll just get my tool box.”

John rubbed his lip where Sherlock had bit him when Mrs. Hudson had appeared and scared the living hell out of them hardly a minute ago. When she was gone, he gave Sherlock a tentative look. “I'm sorry, I-”

“No, of course, just leave in the middle of-”

“Sherlock, I can't just let her deal with this on her own, I'm sorry, really, I'll just-”

Sherlock groaned in deep frustration. “Yeah, you go and-” he gesticulated something with his hands before flinging himself on the sofa dramatically. John tried very hard to ignore the way his lean body moved as he stretched his long limbs out. How tight his trousers were, leaving, well, hardly anything to the imagination, really. How closely his shirt hugged his torso, honestly, those buttons were just about screaming to burst, to be undone by John's fingers-

He gasped for air, turning away in an attempt to force his eyes from Sherlock, who, of course, had to choose this exact moment to look like a creature of pure sex.

“Sherlock, it's not her fault that the pipe burst,” John said miserably, well aware that he didn't hold it against her any less than Sherlock did.

He only got a low chunter in reply.

The pipe, a rusty old thing that, of course, couldn't have worked just one more day, didn't take too long to fix. John helped Mrs. Hudson clean up afterwards, reminding himself of her hip as he bitterly kneeled on the floor, wiping the water away. Not trying to think of where else he could be kneeling right now.

He considered refusing when Mrs. Hudson declared that she'd come up and cook for them as a thanks, but he didn't want to hurt her feelings. And the moment he'd shared with Sherlock earlier, pressed to a wall, was gone anyway.

A night in with their landlady it was, then.

 

 

Sherlock stood in the kitchen when John got back from the shops the day after that. “Oh, hey,” he said, setting the heavy bags down. “I didn't know you'd be home.”

“I decided against going to the morgue,” Sherlock explained, turning around to lean against the fridge. “I texted Molly about the available corpses. They're all boring.”

“How conveniant.” John grinned at Sherlock's confused expression.

“What's conveniant about that?”

John tilted his head. “I was thinking...” He stepped closer, licking his lips. Sherlock's gaze flickered to his tongue. “You know, I have the rest of the day off, too,” he said, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock reciprocated the touch, his interest sparked.

“Oh?” he asked.

John nodded.“No case. No bursting pipes. No corpses.” He underlined each sentence with a kiss to Sherlock's neck.

“I see,” Sherlock said, tilting his head to give John better access. “Just us, it seems.” His eyes fluttered shut at the contact of John's lips with the sensitive skin. He let out a deep sigh. “Come here,” he said, wrapping his arms around John's neck before kissing him. John opened his mouth, letting Sherlock explore him with his tongue as his cock grew harder in his trousers.

“In this case I will tell you that I am completely at your disposal for the remainder of the day,” Sherlock whispered against his skin when they broke the kiss, and yes, god, this was really happening now. John tried to adjust himself in his trousers without taking them off just yet. He shared a look with Sherlock, a silent understanding to do this slowly, without any rush. To really take their time.

God, how he wanted this. He stretched up to meet Sherlock for another kiss, fisting one hand into his shirt as they explored each other's mouths. John's other hand made its way to the bulge beginning to form in Sherlock's trousers. He was rewarded with a jerk of his hips and a low moan. He smiled, moving his fingers to the button. Sherlock pressed into the touch, moving his hands down John's sides to slip beneath his jumper, feel the heat of his skin-

“Hu-hu!”

They broke apart immediately. “God no,” Sherlock breathed out, closing his eyes.

“What is it, Mrs. Hudson?” John called, refusing to let go of Sherlock, to accept that this was happening just yet. “We're kind of in the middle of something!”

“Sorry to interrupt, boys.” Mrs. Hudson had the audacity to sound amused. “It's your brother, Sherlock. He's outside. Refuses to come up without me knocking first. Shall I let him in?”

Sherlock let out a low groan. John hung his head in silence to collect himself. Then he slowly loosened each of his fingers from their grip on Sherlock's shirt, earning himself a death glare from the other man.

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” John hissed. “Leave him standing outside our door while we have a shag?” He stepped back, decidedly not thinking of said shag as he ran his hands through his hair to at least give the impression of propriety. Sherlock followed without a word, doing no such thing despite his dishevelled state.

“You could at least try to not look like I was just about to fuck you senseless,” John muttered as he opened the door, cursing himself a moment later when  _entirely_ unwanted pictures flooded his mind.

“Why would I?” Sherlock's stare bespoke burning hatred as he watched his brother climb up the stairs. “He knows what we were doing. Why else would he send Mrs. Hudson up first?”

John sighed. “Your brother's a mighty pain in the arse,” he muttered under his breath. Mrs. Hudson tutted at his choice of words, taking them as a cue to leave them to it. Then John spoke again, louder.

“Mycroft! How nice of you to drop by, without even a word of warning _._ To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Mycroft graced him with a look that conveyed with absolute clarity how very much he didn't appreciate the sarcasm. John folded his arms, staring right back.

“Well?” Sherlock barked, not moving an inch to the right, effectively denying his brother entry. Mycroft sighed.

“Trust me, Sherlock, I had no desire to interrupt your, no doubt, far more _interesting_ occupation.” His eyes wandered over Sherlock's body as he spoke, undoubtedly reading every single thing they'd been up to just five minutes ago from the wrinkles on his shirt or the state of his hair or _something_. John felt the urge to step between the two brothers, to shield Sherlock from Mycroft's calculating gaze. Mycroft spoke before he had the chance to act on it.

“An urgent crisis has arisen. I'm afraid my visit couldn't possibly have been postponed.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Mycroft sighed again. “Mummy just called. Our parents have booked a spontaneous trip to London. They'll be staying for three days.”

John didn't make an effort to hide the roll of his eyes. The liability to drama clearly ran in the family.

Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't seem to think that his brother was overreacting. On the contrary, he looked highly alarmed.

“When are they-”

“Tonight.”

“Damn it.” John wasn't sure which one of them had said it. It didn't matter. They both knew what it meant.

“They'll want to see us tonight, naturally. Both of us. And him,” Mycroft declared with a side glance at John. John straightened, not too fond of being addressed as _him_ when he was standing right there _._ Or the prospect of _meeting the parents,_ for that matter. Leaving aside the fact that he'd already met them. He hadn't been their youngest son's boyfriend then, so this was important. This was... official. And it was tonight, of all nights. Of course. Of bloody course.

“Unfortunately, I'm unable to take care of the planning of today's evening,” Mycroft continued. Sherlock opened his mouth in an attempt to protest, but Mycroft talked right over him. “I felt like the matter required a personal visit, since you undoubtedly would have ignored any messages regarding the topic.” He narrowed his eyes. “I took them to see _Les Misérables_ last time. You are not getting out of this again, Sherlock.” His gaze shifted to John. “Especially now that there's a new... addition to the family, which they'll undoubtedly want to meet as such.”

John briefly wondered whether being considered a part of the Holmes family was a good thing.

“I trust you to take care of planning a nice evening. Don't worry, I will take care of the remaining days.” Mycroft glanced at his clock. “They'll be here in three hours. Might as well use the time to clean the flat a little. You know how Mummy reacts to dust.” He turned on his heels. “I won't be staying,” he called over his shoulder. “I expect you to be ready in time. And remember, any plans you had for the remainder of their visit, you can consider cancelled. I'll be seeing you both tonight.”

Well. That was as clear as it got.

John suppressed the urge to kick something.  They couldn't get out of this one, and they both knew it. It was Sherlock's parents, for god's sake.

Sherlock didn't wait until the clicking of Mycroft's umbrella vanished before he threw the door shut. His groan carried all the pent-up frustration John felt within himself.

It was the fifth time something like this had happened, and John was going to go insane. He just wanted to have a shag with his boyfriend, that was all he wanted. He didn't understand why the universe was so vehemently against letting him have this _one_ thing.

He'd be nice. He'd try to stop laughing at crime scenes. He'd even try to make amends with Harry, if only he was granted to have sex with Sherlock before one of them died from frustration. If John knew who he had to beg, he'd do it. He even considered praying for a second before quashing the thought.

It was too late anyway. Their only chance at some intimacy for another three days had just walked out of the door.

Three.

Days.

Sherlock looked like he might set fire to something. Or someone. A certain someone with a certain umbrella, perhaps.

John _was_ going to go insane.

 

In hindsight, it hadn't been their _best_ idea to sneak into a dark room at Scotland Yard, in the middle of a case that had stretched over several days, to get each other off in whatever way - John honestly didn't care anymore at this point. But in their defence, they were getting positively _desperate_.

Sherlock's hungry eyes had been on John all day (not hungry, starving, John corrected himself, shuddering whenever he met his gaze) and John's skin had felt like it burned every time they accidentally touched (and by now it really was accidental, neither of them was getting any joy out of teasing anymore), and _fuck it,_ John thought, he really didn't have to justify his actions. He was only human, after all. Nobody could blame him for having... impulses.

Nobody could blame him for the loss of said impulses when Anderson's voice appeared in the hall, either.

“...for three days straight,” his snarl sounded just as John prepared to rip Sherlock's trousers off before dropping to his knees. Sherlock froze mid-motion. His hand twitched slightly on John's waist. John closed his eyes.

No. This wasn't happening. This. Was. Not. Happening.

Anderson's voice grew louder and more clear until he stopped right in front of the room they were hiding in. “She can't even get _that_ right,” he huffed, sounding terribly amused. “Can't believe I used to fuck her. She blew me off right here at the Yard once, did you know?”

John blinked at Sherlock. Sherlock stared at him helplessly, shaking his head in anguish as Anderson continued to talk outside. Sherlock swallowed hard. “John, I...” He looked down to his crotch. The bulge John had just wanted to give his full attention to was already starting to disappear. John sighed.

“Me too,” he whispered, just so resisting the urge to bang his head against the wall. Or Anderson's, alternatively.

Anderson's laugh sounded from the hall. “Alright, see you later,” he called to whoever he'd just been gloating to. Then he pushed the door open, freezing when the full force of the combined death glare John and Sherlock were giving him hit him. “What are _you_ doing here?” he snarled, looking between them.

“Nothing, Anderson,” Sherlock spat out, pushing past him. His voice was burning with hatred. “Absolutely nothing.” John clenched his fist, following after him.

“Thanks,” he hissed towards Anderson, who stood in the doorway in confusion. John hoped he'd stand there for the rest of the case, so he wouldn't have to see his face again.

 

 

The case took another two days to be solved, and by the time they got home they were so tired that all they could do before collapsing into bed was taking a shower. Separately. Half of John was cursing himself for being exhausted enough to miss out on the opportunity. The other half was just screaming for sleep.

When John woke up the next day, Sherlock was already out of bed. The kettle sounded from the kitchen and John closed his eyes for another few seconds, enjoying the moment of peace before rolling over to get to the bathroom. When he entered the living room all dried up, Sherlock was lingering on the sofa in his dressing gown. John noted the two cups of tea in front of him with a smile. He joined Sherlock, leaning in to press a kiss to his temple.

“Morning,” he mumbled, taking one of the cups in his hands. “Thanks for that,” he sighed after taking a sip. Sherlock hummed, dropping the papers he'd been reading.

“Move,” he said, nudging John's legs. They shuffled around until Sherlock was resting half on top of John, his ear pressed to his heart. It was narrow and should have been uncomfortable, but neither of them seemed to mind. John lazily ran his hands through Sherlock's curls, enjoying the closeness. The way Sherlock's arms tightened around his body. How he could count each of his breaths.

With all the turbulences they'd had recently, they'd missed out on this, too.

“You know, Mrs. Hudson left this morning to visit her sister,” Sherlock announced into the peaceful quiet. A smile spread on John's face.

“Truly,” he mused.

“My phone's on silent,” Sherlock continued, raising his head to catch John's eyes.

“How precautious of you,” John played along, quirking his eyebrows.

“I suspect that Mycroft is terribly busy with the elections coming up. No time to bother us.” Sherlock sat up, lingering between John's legs.

“Sounds like we have a dull day ahead of us,” John said. His breath hitched when Sherlock slipped from the sofa, kneeling down before him. His hand rested on his thigh. John moved to sit up as well, facing him.

“I can think of a way or two to keep us occupied,” Sherlock mused, running his hands over his clothes. “John,” he purred, looking up at him with a smile, “take off your pants.”

He didn't have to be told twice. The trousers met the floor, followed by his pants. John was slightly breathless when he settled on the sofa again, only wearing a shirt and the dressing gown he'd thrown on after his shower.

His cock twitched under Sherlock's intense gaze. John could feel the blood rushing down there before either of them had even touched it. Then Sherlock leaned in and, in a swift motion, took his still soft cock in his mouth.

John gasped. “Fuck,” he muttered, licking his lips at the sensation.

It briefly occurred to him how good of an idea it had been to get tested for STDs right at the beginning of their relationship. Then any thoughts that weren't directly linked to the wet heat around his flesh disappeared from John's mind.

For a while Sherlock just kept him in his mouth, waiting as John's cock grew harder with the hot pressure around it, filling him until he struggled to keep it in. Then, with a bat of his lashes, he moved his tongue and began to suck.

“Christ,” John managed, his hands finding their way into Sherlock's hair automatically. Sherlock groaned around John's flesh, taking the grip as approval. He started to move faster, curling his tongue around the cock, playing with the slit at the tip, going deeper down every time he bobbed his head. John was mesmerized by the way his cock disappeared deeper and deeper in Sherlock's mouth, how he carelessly smeared saliva all over himself, focused on the flesh between his lips.

The sight of Sherlock on his knees, his beautiful lips wrapped so tightly around John, the shape of his cock visible through his cheek and his chin wet with saliva very nearly did John in.

Sherlock moaned around him when he tasted the first drop of precome leaking from John's cock. He looked up through his lashes and their eyes locked. John's blood rustled in his ears. He tried to speak but his brain failed him, so he just curled his fingers around strands of Sherlock's hair, pulling slightly.

Sherlock closed his eyes at the sensation. He slowly drew back until his lips were on the tip of John's cock, giving the impression of a tender kiss. Then his tongue darted out and he gave a long, slow lick all the way down to the base. He nuzzled his nose into John's balls, breathing out through this mouth. The tingling hot air drew a sharp breath from John.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to his slick cock. His voice was but a rough whisper. “John. Please. I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh, god,” John yelped, his cock twitching as images filled his head. “Sherlock, oh god.”

“I want you inside me. _Everywhere_ inside me.”

John closed his eyes. “Fuck,” he muttered, loosening his grip on Sherlock's curls as he moved up his body. His slick, plump lips were frustratingly close to John's.

“Please, John,” he mumbled, the low voice going straight to John's leaking cock, “just take me to bed.”

John groaned in response, meeting Sherlock for a hard kiss. “Yes,” he gasped into his mouth and it was so _hot_  he felt himself getting dizzy, “yes, let's go to bed, _yes._ ”

The short way from the sofa to the bedroom took a little longer than usual. They both refused to let go of the other for more than a second, clawing at clothes, touching skin, seeking lips. Sherlock was half undressed too by the time they reached the bed. He fumbled with his pants, leaving them on the floor before settling on the bed stark naked, pulling John down with him.

They stilled for a moment, John hovering over Sherlock, Sherlock looking up at him. Their eyes locked and John moved his hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, leaning in for a kiss. It was soft and tender, almost agonisingly slow and deep. Sherlock moved his lips over John's cheek to his neck after they broke for air, nuzzling the sensitive skin, licking over his pulse.

“You're still wearing your shirt,” Sherlock's rough voice reminded him before he turned his attention to the sensitive spot behind John's ear.

John let out a shaky breath before fiddling with the fabric. Sherlock returned his attention to John's mouth and they shared another kiss before getting rid of the last piece of clothing together.

The feeling of Sherlock's skin on his with nothing in between was enough to make John gasp for air. His hands were all over Sherlock's body, Sherlock's touch all over John's skin.

It was maddening. It was so, _so_ right.

John couldn't help but let out a deep groan. This was happening. At last, this was finally, _actually_ happening. They'd waited for so long. The need to be closer to Sherlock, to pleasure him, see him come undone suddenly took over John.

He made up his mind and pushed Sherlock on his back, grinning at his questioning look. Then he slowly moved down his pale body, pressing his lips here and there until his mouth was hovering over his hard cock.

“Beautiful,” John whispered. Then he took him into his mouth. He was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath, followed by a low groan. John hummed around Sherlock's cock, which twitched at the vibration. Sherlock's breaths grew deeper. He seemed at a loss as to what to do with his hands before loosely settling them on John's head, stroking his hair more than gripping it.

“John, ah-” His strangled voice went straight to John's own cock.

“You might want to stop- ah, doing this,” Sherlock got out, but made no move to do so, “if you plan on fucking me today, because if you- if you continue this, I won't last longer than a minute.”

His voice broke off and John shuddered at the low groan that followed his words. As if they hadn't been arousing enough already.

He went down on the shaft of Sherlock's cock once more, curling his tongue around it before taking his mouth off with an obscene pop. Sherlock let out a shaky breath.

“Are you sure you want this?” John asked, placing a trail of soft kisses on Sherlock's warm skin. “Want me inside you today? Because I'm perfectly happy to suck you off right now,” he mumbled, interrupting himself again and again to meet Sherlock's body, wandering up from his navel over his ribcage to his hard nipples, teasing each one with his tongue.

“And when I'm inside you for the first time,” he went on, reaching his neck, mouthing at his pulse, enjoying the rapid breaths that got out of Sherlock, “I'll take my time with it, I'll make you come undone, Sherlock, I'll fuck you-”

He reached his mouth, licking over his full bottom lip obscenely, watching with delight how Sherlock's eyelids fluttered at the contact. “Until you're begging me to let you come.”

John caught his lips in a deep kiss just as a low moan left Sherlock's mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathed out.

John smiled. “I intend to.” He brought his hand to Sherlock's face, rubbing his thumb over his cheek before seeking his lips again. “Your choice,” he mumbled.

Sherlock reached up when he drew back, taking John's face in his hands before pulling him down for a deeper kiss. John closed his eyes, focusing on nothing but the man beneath him, the sheer intimacy of what they were doing.

Sherlock's hand wandered to his shoulder before he broke the kiss. “I want you,” he muttered against John's lips, his hot breath ghosting over them in an arousing way, “to fuck me.” Then he reached down swiftly, closing his hand around John's cock in a demanding stroke.

“ _Fuck,”_ John got out. Now Sherlock was the one who smirked.

“Precisely.”

He fumbled for the bottle of lube that had been set on his bedside table for days now, handing it to John with a soft kiss to his lips, saying _I want this_ , saying _I want you, I trust you._ “Take your time,” he added out loud, a smile playing on his lips. “Now that we have it.”

John huffed out a laugh. Then he swallowed, sitting back on his heels as he poured the lube onto his fingers. Sherlock spread his legs further, letting his head fall against the pillow.

“Alright?” John asked, putting his finger to Sherlock's entrance.

Sherlock's breath hitched at the cold sensation, but he nodded. “Go on.” John took a deep breath as he began to circle the puckered flesh. Then, slowly, he pushed the first finger in.

Sherlock gasped at the intrusion. John moved his unoccupied hand to cover Sherlock's, rubbing his skin soothingly. “I'll go slow,” he promised, squeezing once. Sherlock laced their fingers together, but didn't seem to seek comfort. John took that as permission to continue.

He slowly turned his finger around, then started to push it further inside. Sherlock's breath sped up. His panting was the only sound in the room as his body adjusted to the stretch and the muscle loosened under John's massage.

“You're beautiful,” John mumbled as he moved deeper into Sherlock, getting ready to add another finger. “Are you ready for two?”

Sherlock nodded, groaning as John retreated, then entered him again with two fingers. He pushed them in completely in a slow motion, but didn't move otherwise. Instead, he watched Sherlock's face as he adjusted to the strain. He was always beautiful, but like this, he was breathtaking.

Eventually Sherlock pushed back on him. John took the hint, slowly starting to move his fingers, gently spreading them to open Sherlock up further. The sounds Sherlock made were more than a little distracting, but they prevented John's cock from flagging while he opened Sherlock.

One day, John thought, his heart pounding, he'd make Sherlock come only by fingering him. The sight of him quivering beneath John was stunning.

“You're amazing.” John's voice trembled slightly. “Can you take one more?”

“ _Please,_ ” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. " _Yes._ Do it."

So John did. By the time the third finger was buried deep inside him, Sherlock's hole was slick and loose. John watched his fingers disappearing into Sherlock's body in awe, going past the puckered ring of muscles so much easier now than they'd done before.

His eyes shot up when Sherlock jerked, then let out a low moan.

“Fuck,” they said at the same time.

“Did I hit your-”

“Yes,” Sherlock moaned again, panting now. “Please, John,” he gasped, “I'm ready. Just fuck me. Please.”

John exhaled, then nodded and removed his fingers. Sherlock groaned at the sudden emptiness. John bent down to press a kiss to his glistening skin, then squeezed more lube onto his hand before tossing the bottle away.

“You tell me when it's too much,” he said, giving his cock a few quick strokes. Sherlock gave a sharp nod, spreading his legs further. John licked his lips, bringing his cock to Sherlock's entrance. He took one last look at Sherlock's face for confirmation. He looked beautiful, so full of anticipation and concentration. John moved to push the tip in.

Sherlock gasped, closing his eyes as he adjusted to the new strain. John held on until he relaxed again, then he pushed a little farther inside. He repeated the motion a couple of times, thoughtfully, going a little deeper each time until he was buried in Sherlock completely.

John looked down to where their bodies connected. “Fuck,” he groaned.

Sherlock gripped his shoulder. “Please,” he breathed out, his eyelids fluttering shut. “Do it. Please.”

John nodded. He bent down, kissing Sherlock as well as he could from his position. Then, with their lips still connected, he began to move.

The way Sherlock moaned into his mouth as he thrust into him was the hottest thing John had ever experienced. He intertwined their hands again, brushing his thumb over Sherlock's trembling hand.

He kept his rhythm for a while, giving them both time to adjust to the sensation. Sherlock was so tight, so hot and eager as he pushed back on his cock. John was dangerously close to coming. But he'd promised Sherlock that he'd take his time with him. And he fully intended to keep that promise. He wanted Sherlock to come first, to have the images of it on his mind when he came himself.

John stopped mid-motion, waiting until Sherlock was looking at him questioningly. Then he began to move again with a different pace, going in and out agonisingly slow. “John,” Sherlock groaned, gripping his shoulder. “Please, I-”

John grinned as he pulled out almost completely, then thrust into him again in a swift motion. Sherlock moaned, tightening his grip on John. He hoped that he'd leave his marks there. He wanted to remember this, _feel_ this tomorrow.

“Do you like this?” he mumbled. “Do you like being fucked by me?”

“Oh god,” Sherlock let out, the deep sound making John's cock leak even more. “Yes,” he panted, “please, John, yes, fuck me more, please.” He was babbling.

“More?” John asked, stopping his movement. “You want more?” He smiled when Sherlock nodded desperately, wriggling to push back on his cock. “Let's try something, then.”

Sherlock made protesting noises when John slipped out of him, but stopped when he saw John laying on his back.

"Come here, love," John mumbled. Sherlock complied, bringing one leg over John's body, carefully settling on top of him. Then he reached behind him, holding John's cock in place as he slowly pushed his hips down. They both held their breath as Sherlock lowered himself more and more, until his buttocks met John's flesh and John's cock was buried inside him completely. They groaned in unison at the heightened sensation.

“Alright?” John managed to get out, watching Sherlock's face. Sherlock nodded, supporting himself on John's good shoulder. Then he started to move. John gripped his hips. His breath sped up as Sherlock rode him. It only took a few erratic movements before Sherlock let out a stifled moan that told John that he'd hit his prostate again. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock, stroking in time with the jerks of Sherlock's hips.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John mumbled, moving his thumb over his skin encouragingly. “Come for me, love, come on.”

That seemed to give him the rest. Sherlock's back arched and he cried out as his semen spluttered on himself and John's hand. Neither of them cared. John's eyes were entirely fixed on Sherlock's deliciously distorted face, the shallow breaths he let out. Knowing he was the cause for them nearly brought him over the edge too. “Fuck, Sherlock, I'm-”

John gripped him tightly before moving him around in a swift motion, pushing Sherlock on his back again. John hovered over him a moment later, grabbing his cock.

Sherlock only stared up at him with a hazy gaze, then ejected a low moan when John entered his sensitive hole again.

“You're beautiful, you're so fucking beautiful, Sherlock.” Now John was babbling. A low heat began to build in his stomach. “You're amazing. You're so bloody- ah, brilliant...”

His voice broke when Sherlock started to clench around him. He gasped, staring at him with his mouth hanging open. Sherlock smiled up at him, not taking his eyes from his for a single moment.

“John,” Sherlock said, clenching around him again. And again. John shut his eyes. “Come on, John, please, come for me.”

“Fuck, I'm going to-”

Sherlock took a sharp breath when he pulled out. John groaned as his semen sputtered onto Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock reached for the hard flesh, giving it a few firm strokes as the rest of John's release dripped on him.

“Shit,” John got out, nearly collapsing on top of Sherlock. Instead he slumped to the side, trying to catch his breath.

He watched in mesmerization as Sherlock dipped his finger into the sticky fluid on his stomach, then brought it to his mouth. He let out an involuntary gasp at the sight of Sherlock tasting his sperm, swallowing it. At how he didn't seem appalled by its taste and texture, but rather intrigued.

Sherlock looked up at the sound. He dipped his finger in it again, this time holding John's gaze as he brought it to his lips, leaving a light trace on his tongue as he licked his finger clean.

The next drop was smeared on his lips. He brought every last splatter to his mouth, watching John intently as he finally licked the remaining fluid from where it was about to drip from his lips and swallowed again.

He smirked when he was done, supporting himself on his elbow. John remembered to close his mouth, distinctly wondering when he'd opened it.

“Jesus,” he breathed out. “You're incredible. You're fucking incredible.”

“Next time,” Sherlock muttered before pulling John down for a long kiss, “you can come inside me.”

John's taste was still prominent on his tongue. Sherlock kissed him wildly, deeply, as though he wanted them to share it, wanted it to cling to both of them. John couldn't say that he minded. Eventually he slumped against the pillow, pulling Sherlock close. Sherlock reached for the blanket on the floor, lazily throwing it over them. Neither of them spoke for a while, still too caught up in the blissful post-orgasm haze.

Sherlock was the first to talk again.

“If anyone ever tries to interfere with you and me having sex again, I'll destroy them.”

John snorted. “Hmm,” he mused, pressing a tender kiss to Sherlock's damp forehead. “Can't say that I'd stop you.” He moved his fingers up and down Sherlock's skin, cherishing the way his heartbeat sped up when he leaned into the tender touch. “That _was_ rather spectacular.”

Sherlock turned to his side, smirking at him. “Quite so.” He leaned in, meeting John's lips for a soft kiss. “I don't suppose I'll grow tired of this anytime soon.”

John hummed, his lips curving into a smile. “No," he agreed, "I suppose I won't, either.”


End file.
